


Wanted: Blogger

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock requires a new assistant. Season 3 spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanted: Blogger

Sherlock studied the woman sitting before him. She looked nervous, her hands folded neatly in her lap and her knees ferociously tight next to one another, as though she were holding back a caged animal.

Sherlock balked at the thought, and then hurriedly dismissed it.

"Alright, next question. You return to the flat and find me on fire. What is your first instinct?"

The woman frowned.

"Is that likely to happen?"

"Just answer the question please."

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. "How on fire are you talking?"

Sherlock bobbed his head from side to side. "Mildly."

"Mildly on fire?"

"Yes. Reactions, if you would."

"Well..." the woman began, drawing out the word. "I suppose I'd call an ambulance."

Sherlock, who had been pacing in front of the fireplace, stopped dead.

"An ambulance?"

The woman eyed him, trying to work out if she had given the wrong answer or if it was some kind of trick, but in the end she decided it would be best to stick to her guns. That showed character.

"Yes, that is what I would do."

Sherlock nodded at the floor. "Alright, I think we're done here. Thank you for your time."

"But-"

"Please, don't let me keep you," Sherlock said, striding over to the door and opening it wide. "Good night."

The woman sighed and retrieved her bag from the side of the sofa. As she stepped over the threshold, she turned to say something else to Sherlock and was met with the door shutting quietly in her face. She huffed and stomped off down the stairs.

Sherlock threw himself into his armchair stroppily. This was becoming tedious. All of the puzzles he had solved, and here was one that was proving irritatingly difficult. He grabbed his violin and rested it gently in his lap, running his fingers over the strings as though he were petting a kitten.

His dark thoughts were interrupted by another knock at the door. He opened it and found a tall man standing on the other side. Too tall.

"No," he said, shutting the door again.

Perhaps he was going about this all wrong, he mused, heading into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. When facing the unknown, always try to find familiar ground.

He therefore paused in opening the fridge to consider his options.

Molly, who was already medically versed, had potential, but he'd already tried that, hadn't he? While perfect on paper, (reasonably fit, not squeamish, already well accustomed to what a colossal arse he could be), she fell short because she would insist of having all those feelings for him. Not much good if some lowlife was holding a gun to his head and all she could do was make moon eyes at him.

Checking her off his mental list, he turned his thoughts to Lestrade. Also in good health and used to a bloody murder or two, perhaps a little slow on the uptake but then, weren't they all? The only problem was that he was doggedly insistent that his job actually mattered. It took up the vast majority of his time, and he wasn't about to jack it all in so Sherlock could spend a week measuring his toenail growth.

Oh, wait, John had told him never to mention again, not even to himself. But a man could hardly be expected to delete such important information. Oh well.

When he spotted that he was out of biscuits, his thoughts immediately turned to Mrs. Hudson. She had a strong stomach on her, and an undoubtedly stronger set of lungs, but she was too old, surely? Not really up to running down darkened London streets after murderers. They'd probably have to stop every time she got a run in her stockings or something.

He carried his tea into the sitting room and flung himself back down into his chair. He'd known John was good, but was it possible that he was irreplaceable? Sherlock snorted and sipped his tea, which made him thankful to be alone when he choked slightly. 

Oh, what did he have to go and get married for? What a stupid thing to do! Didn't he know there was more to life than dinner parties and putting up shelves? What about serial killers, John? What about locked room mysteries and bank heists where the perpetrator already had a key? Moron. 

There was yet another knock at the door. Sherlock opened it and found himself face to chest with the newcomer. Good start.

"Come in then," he said tiredly.

The man timidly stepped into the flat, his eyes darting this way and that.

Big on details, Sherlock mused.

"Please, sit down."

The man sat.

"You are a doctor, as advertised?" he asked.

"Yes," the man responded. Of course you are, Sherlock noted, look at the scuff marks on your shoes. Still, the others had gone on to tell him where they were educated or what their specialities were .This man had wasted no words, however, and that was excellent.

"So, you've seen a bit of carnage then?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to see some more?"

"Absolutely."

Sherlock allowed himself a small grin. This really was starting to look promising.

"And can I just say , Mr. Holmes, that I am your biggest fan. The way you-"

"Get out."

"I'm sorry?"

"No moon eyes! Out!"

Sherlock slammed the door behind this latest failure and flung himself face first onto the sofa. Why was he finding this so difficult? Alright, so John was a doctor and a soldier, which meant bravery, and he was understanding of Sherlock's ways which practically made him a saint. But just because the man was loyal and honest and made a damn fine cup of tea, that didn't mean that there wasn't someone else out there who also possessed those very important qualities.

And therein lie the mystery. How to find someone like John Watson who wasn't John Watson at all?

He sat up and pulled his phone from his pocket. Scrolling through his phone book, he selected a name and pressed the mobile to his ear.

After three rings, someone answered.

"Hello?"

"Harry! Sherlock Holmes. How's the alcoholism going?"


End file.
